


A Darcy Thanksgiving

by lacorsetiere



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 23:01:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacorsetiere/pseuds/lacorsetiere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint plays bodyguard so Darcy can travel home for Thanksgiving. Nothing involving Darcy is ever that simple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Timing: let’s say the fall after the events in The Avengers. Manhattan has begun to recover from the Chitauri attack, but Darcy’s only recently arrived so she hasn’t had a chance to wreak too much damage of her own.  
> Pairing: Darcy Lewis/Clint Barton eventually. This is still very much a pre-‘ship deal.  
> Summary: Clint plays bodyguard so Darcy can travel home for Thanksgiving. Nothing involving Darcy is ever that simple.  
> Ratings/Warnings: The first 1-2 chapters are probably PG-13. The 3rd chapter is mild R for mention of semi-nudity, male genitalia, and sexual arousal (I can’t seem to write Clint for long without smut starting to surface) as well as bad language, violence, and icky injuries.  
> Spoilers: Major spoilery for all of the Marvelverse movies (up through Thor: The Dark World) and for the first season of the ABC show Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Really though, it’s so thoroughly tainted by my own head canon that I might be forgetting something so I apologize in advance.  
> Feedback: Desperately seeking it! This is my first attempt at writing in this fandom. This fic was conceived while I was trying to find a cheap flight home for Thanksgiving and discovered you can fly cargo class if you don’t mind giving up creature comforts. I know that I suck at making up titles, so I’m open to suggestions.  
> Disclaimers: I don’t own anything here. I’m not making money off any of these. Just having fun.

Thanksgiving was Darcy Lewis’ favorite holiday. Lots of people had family drama on Turkey Day, but it was the one special occasion that her relatives to be counted on to act like sane people. Well, as sane as could be expected from people who fought over the Tofurky Jurky Wishstix™. Still, it was a comforting insanity. Unlike the Avengers-related craziness around her. So Darcy desperately needed Thanksgiving with her family, simulated turkey bones and all. Which is why, two days before the holiday, she found herself bursting into Agent Coulson’s office waving her rejected leave request form in her fist.

“No? Seriously? NO?!?” She yelled. “Because I’m pretty sure that the new hire orientation packet specified Thanksgiving is a day off for non-essential S.H.I.E.L.D. civilian personnel.” Darcy was bluffing because she didn’t actually read the packet.

Coulson didn’t look up from his stack of forms. “Ah, but you _are_ essential personnel, Ms. Lewis. By virtue of your relationship with Dr. Foster, you are essential to her emotional health. Which is critical to her continued ability to focus on rebuilding the Bifrost. If you were abducted or…compromised, it could set her work back for the foreseeable future.”

Darcy stared at the man in disbelief. Is that how he’d really see something awful happening to her? As a setback to a S.H.I.E.L.D. mission? _Yeah_ , a little voice in her head said. _The guy probably saw the 8 seconds he was dead as a temporary setback._ “But…” she said.

“No buts, Ms. Lewis.” Coulson interrupted. “The fine print on your contract says that you can’t set foot outside the Five Boroughs without a S.H.I.E.L.D. escort.” Darcy made a face because she hadn’t bothered to read her contract either. At least not beyond lines that stated the salary plus major medical coverage for her new position as “primary companion to S.H.I.E.L.D. consultant Jane Foster, Ph.D.”

Coulson continued. “Normally, I’d send a Level 5 agent with you, but anyone not on actual leave for the holiday will be working.”

Something whizzed over Coulson’s shoulder to land on his desk. Darcy yelped and took a step back before frantically scanning the back of the small room for the source of the attack. Coulson didn’t flinch. “Barton. Air vent,” he explained as he picked up the object. Darcy squinted at the narrow slits of the grate covering the vent. She couldn’t see the master archer or figure out how he’d fit anything through the tiny openings.

“A paper dart? Are you in fourth grade.” Coulson chided the air vent’s occupant. Still, he unfolded the missive. Scrawled across the sheet of paper was “I’ll do it”.

Coulson shook his head. “No. You’re on medical leave for two more weeks.”

The next paper dart clipped Coulson’s ear lightly. He turned to glare at the air vent. “Make that three more weeks.”

This time Darcy retrieved the message, tearing the edges a little in her haste to unfold it. “No turkey. No parade. Might as well be useful.” She read aloud. “Huh?”

Coulson sighed. “Barton has a broken jaw from the Avengers’ last run in with the Doombots. It’s wired shut for a few weeks so he can’t eat solid food.” There was a wistful sounding clunk from the air vent. “And Director Fury thought it an unnecessary security risk to have Avengers actually marching in the Macy’s Parade.” The next clunk sounded resentful.

Something that the senior agent would have vehemently denied was a smile ghosted across his lips. “He actually can talk, but no one can understand him.”

“Sorry,” Darcy called out. A split second later, a third paper dart landed gently in her hair. She tugged it loose and read it. “Tell him that I can go baby sit you or he can stay here to babysit both of us.” She showed the note to Coulson. “Please?” She grinned mischievously at the senior agent and was rewarded with an air vent clunk that sounded a lot like laughter.

“Fine. The two of you deserve each other.” Coulson made a dismissive gesture and returned to his paperwork. “Go. Make travel arrangements. Barton, keep her on a ridiculously short lease. And I expect you both to return in 72 hours without a single scratch.”

Darcy blew a kiss at the air vent as she left.

***

Two hours later, Darcy stared at her Stark tablet in disgust. She should have guessed something was up when Coulson yielded so easily. True to his word, the senior agent immediately cleared Darcy’s travel to Chicago under Barton’s supervision. However, even the brief delay on the day before the busiest travel day in the U.S. meant that she had missed booking on flights that would allow a roundtrip within Coulson’s 72 hour limit.

A paper dart landed skittered across the tablet. “Hey!” she exclaimed before looking up at the air vent above her sofa in Avengers Tower. She unfolded the note. “Flying coach sucks. Let’s hop a StarkIndustries jet.”

“I can’t just borrow a jet from Tony Stark.”

Another dart rained down. This one fell inside the loose neckline of her oversized Culver University t-shirt to wedge between her breasts. She scowled at the vent before fishing it out. “Yes, you can. Stark thinks you’re totes adorbs.”

“Great.” She muttered. “I’m team mascot.”

The clunk above her head was clearly amused.

***

Despite, Barton’s assurances Darcy was too uncomfortable to ask Stark directly. But a quick call to Pepper Potts got the plane and a substitute pilot reserved for an 8 AM Wednesday flight to Chicago. The generous CEO threw in door to door car service on both ends, a full champagne breakfast on board, and what she described as “the cutest cabin crew men in the StarkIndustries air fleet”. If Pepper thought Darcy’s “choice” of traveling companion odd, she kept it to herself.

The same was not true of Darcy’s parents. If Lida and Ben Lewis had been delighted by Darcy’s news that she would indeed make it home for Thanksgiving, they were outright delirious when she asked her mom to ready the guest room because she would be accompanied by a friend. Darcy had a bit of trouble explaining to her mom that the man she was bringing home for Thanksgiving was definitely just a co-worker and not a boyfriend.

“No, Ma, he’s not gay.” she whispered, peering nervously at the ceiling vents. “It’s um…complicated. He’s uh…recovering from an accident and our boss asked me to keep an eye on him because he doesn’t have a family.”

If there was any subject that engrossed Darcy’s mom, Lida, more than matchmaking, it was illness. Darcy spent the next five minutes recounting the Barton-approved cover story for his injuries: He worked in security at StarkIndustries (Darcy’s parents knew nothing about S.H.I.E.L.D. and thought she was interning in the municipal relations office of SI’s consumer products division.) Barton was injured when he interrupted and foiled the robbery of the new Starkphone prototype. He had a broken jaw, couldn’t speak clearly so he’d write notes on a Stark tablet, and would need liquefied meals during his three day stay in Chicago.

The cover story must have satisfied Lida because she stopped interrogating Darcy about her unexpected guest’s romantic eligibility and started asking about his food preferences. “Ma, I really don’t know him that well,” Darcy said in exasperation. “I’m sure he’ll be fine with soup and some protein shakes. I really gotta go. Thanks, Ma. I love you and Daddy. Can’t wait to see you.”

***

At 2 AM, JARVIS woke Darcy with the news that weather forecasts for the Midwest were calling for airport closures by mid-morning. If she still wanted to make the trip, the AI could secure seats for her and Barton on a StarkIndustries cargo plane bound for Vancouver. That flight was scheduled to leave LaGuardia at 4 AM and could make a stopover in Chicago ahead of the predicted storms.

“Sounds good, but I oughta check with Barton first. Can you patch me through to his room? And put it on video.”

JARVIS complied. A few seconds later, Darcy was (virtually) face to face with a bare-chested Barton. The master archer’s physique wasn’t as impressive as Thor’s or Captain America’s of course, but she still had to stiffle an instinctive wolf-whistle at the sight of his biceps, pecs, and abs.

He held up his Stark tablet on which he had written “What?”

Darcy quickly explained the weather situation and JARVIS’s offer. Barton ran a hand roughly over his already sleep-rumpled hair and then gave her a thumbs up before clicking off.

**

It took a skipped shower and the fast suitcase packing of her life, but before sunrise, Darcy was airborne. She was thoroughly disappointed that she wouldn’t get to check out the rumor that the Starkjet featured stripper poles. And flying cargo class definitely didn’t include a full champagne breakfast. Or cute crew men, just two dour-faced workers in jumpsuits who accompanied the cargo.

Worse still, the cargo compartment was near freezing and so noisy that even if Barton’s jaw hadn’t been wired shut, she wouldn’t have been able to understand a word he said. They both donned noise-cancelling earphones and then wrapped themselves scratchy, dusty smelling blankets that Barton snagged from a box at the front of the plane.

Nonetheless, beggars can’t be choosers. In a couple hours, she would be home for Thanksgiving. Nothing else mattered.

Well, at least until she felt Barton tense beside her and Darcy looked up from her Stark tablet to see the younger of the jumpsuited crew men pointing a gun at them.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter, Clint impulsively offered to play bodyguard while homesick Darcy spends Thanksgiving with her family. Less than an hour in flight, they are taken hostage. Will Clint (live to) regret his offer?  
> If you read this at Fanfiction dot net, I've combined here what are chapters 2 and 3 there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timing: let’s say the fall after the events in The Avengers. Manhattan has begun to recover from the Chitauri attack, but Darcy’s only recently arrived so she hasn’t had a chance to wreak too much damage of her own.  
> Pairing: Darcy Lewis/Clint Barton eventually.   
> Summary: Clint plays bodyguard so Darcy can travel home for Thanksgiving. Nothing involving Darcy is ever that simple.  
> Ratings/Warnings: Teen/PG-13 for violence, bad language, and icky injuries in the first couple chapters. Probably PG-13/mild R before it ends.  
> Spoilers: Major spoilery for all of the Marvelverse movies (up through Thor: The Dark World) and for the first season of the ABC show Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Really though, it’s so thoroughly tainted by my own head canon that I might be forgetting something so I apologize in advance.  
> Feedback: Desperately seeking it! This is my first attempt at writing in this fandom. This fic was conceived while I was trying to find a cheap flight home for Thanksgiving and discovered you can fly cargo class if you don’t mind giving up creature comforts. I know that I suck at making up titles, so I’m open to suggestions. I also suck at writing action scenes.  
> Disclaimers: I don’t own anything here. I’m not making money off any of these. Just having fun.

The crew man with the gun mimicked pulling off their headphones, which they quickly did.

He yelled. “Let’s do this the easy way.”

Beside Darcy, Clint Barton quirked an eyebrow.

“Well,” the crewman amended, “Not as easy as we planned before you two showed up. But easy enough that I don’t have to put a hole in your girlfriend’s pretty little head. In other words, don’t be a hero, dude.”  

Beside her Barton nodded, and the man seemed satisfied, though he kept the gun trained on them.

In the harsh lighting of the cargo plane’s hold, the gun looked enormous.  Darcy wanted to close her eyes so that she wouldn’t see when it fired, but found she couldn’t override the basic field training that even S.H.I.E.L.D.’s civilian employees had drummed into them. _“If you are held hostage, pay attention to everything,”_ Darcy could hear her instructor saying. _“The detail that seems the least significant may be the critical one to aid in your escape or rescue.”_

So, details…

Well, the goon with the gun trained on her and Barton was the younger of the two crew men who had accompanied the cargo. He was also alone. His co-worker (partner-in-crime?) must have left his seat in the cargo hold while Darcy was engrossed in a Chicagoist.com article on her StarkPad tablet. She guessed that the older man had entered the cockpit. She wondered whether the pilot was in on whatever the crew men had planned or if he was as shocked as she had been to find himself at gunpoint.

What else?

Um, the man had a fine sheen of perspiration across his forehead despite the frigid temperature of the cargo hold. And he kept touching the back of his neck with his free hand. So, he was nervous. Maybe this was Sweaty’s first time hijacking a plane? Or perhaps he was just thrown by the unexpected passengers accompanying the cargo of Stark phones. Either way, if he was nervous, then he might make mistakes that could be turned to Darcy and Clint Barton’s advantage.

She didn’t know the master archer well at all, but his reputation for getting out of tight squeezes with his hide more or less intact was legendary around S.H.I.E.L.D. If the man holding the gun on them had a weakness that could be detected, Hawkeye would find a way to exploit it. That knowledge alone was sufficient to calm Darcy enough to better focus on the situation. Well, that, and the reassuring feel of his solidly muscled thigh pressed against hers. She wasn’t alone. She was with an Avenger. Judging from the tension in his leg, a pretty pissed Avenger, though the expression on his face conveyed confusion and fear to their captor.

Sweaty seemed to be buying Barton’s act.  Yep, Darcy thought, clearly a newbie at this holding people hostage business. So, probably not the goon-in-charge, then. That, too could be manipulated.

Darcy knew that, as a highly trained and experienced S.H.I.E.L.D. operative, Barton should be the one to talk to the subordinate bad guy. Subtly probe him for hints about cracks in his faith in and loyalty to the mastermind. Feed his insecurity and resentment. Somehow, she didn’t think the technique would be as effective carried out through paper dart notes and Stark Tablet IMs. With Barton’s jaw wired shut, it would be up to her.

“Um, I don’t know what you got planned, mister. But my boyfriend and I just want to go home for Thanksgiving. That’s the only reason we’re on board. We don’t care about the cargo. When we land in Chicago, you can take whatever is in the boxes, and let us go. Please?” She gave him the puppy dog look that sometimes worked with the Level Two S.H.I.E.L.D. agents when she wanted to take Jane out of headquarters for some fresh air.

Sweaty laughed. “It’s kinda cute that you still think we’re landing in Chicago.” He caught Barton’s eye and then leered, “Tell me you aren’t dating her for her brains.”

Thankfully, Sweaty meant his comment to be rhetorical because he didn’t wait for Barton to respond. Instead, he shifted his gaze in the direction of the cockpit, then darted a glance at his wristwatch before looking back at the front of the plane.

Darcy’s stomach chose that moment to gurgle loudly. Normally she’d be horrified, but she was too busy trying to turn it to her advantage. “Excuse me,” she said, trying to sound as embarrassed as possible. “I haven’t had breakfast yet. Not even coffee. I can’t wait until we land… wherever we’re going. I mean every airport has a Starbuck’s, right.”

Sweaty shook his head. “Not this one.”

Darcy gave the gunman a disappointed look. So, not a major airport then. “Ok, I’ll settle for a Caribou Coffee. Or even a Dunkin Donuts.”

“No.” He wasn’t even looking at her when he replied, his attention divided between the cockpit door and his wristwatch.

Darcy continued prattling. “A Biggby’s?”

Sweaty glared at her. “There’s no Dunkin Donuts. No Biggby’s.  No nothing. Just a place to put this plane down, offload the phones, get paid, and be done with the two of you. So shut up.” He turned to Barton, “Dude, your girl’s got a nice rack, but I’d have to muzzle her.”

Darcy pretended to be insulted and pulled the heavy, scratchy blanket in her lap up to her chin as though she was trying to cover her breasts. Hands thus concealed and trying to move as imperceptibly as possible beneath the, Darcy thumbed on her StarkPad. She silently thanked her high school’s strict “no texting in class” policy for her ability to tap out a message one handed without any giveaway expression on her face. Still, she didn’t dare do more than send “SOS. Not going 2 O’Hare. Maybe a private airfield.” to JARVIS, knowing the AI would alert Tony Stark immediately.

Over the next few minutes, Sweaty grew even more nervous and impatient. His glances toward the cockpit and then his wristwatch became more frequent and longer in duration. The gun drifted slightly each time his attention was distracted.

Eventually, Sweaty’s nerves got the better of him and he actually stood up.

In the same moment, Barton kicked the man in the solar plexus.

 

***

Darcy was as surprised as the gun man when Clint attacked. The master archer’s steel-toed boot hit Sweaty in the vulnerable nerve cluster with devastating force.  The goon sharply exhaled and collapsed, firing a shot into the ceiling of the plane as he fell backwards. Then, Barton was on top of him.

Unable to breathe properly, let alone yell for help or fight back, Sweaty was quickly disarmed by Barton. Clint slipped the gun into his waistband and then trussed up their former captor using the man’s own belt around his hands and Barton’s around his feet. Clint then snagged Darcy’s infinity scarf off her neck and used it to gag the goon. It all took less than a minute.

“Wow!” Darcy said. “Wow!”

Clint quirked an eyebrow at her.

“I mean, um, I know you’re an Avenger, but” she breathed. “Just wow!”

He gave an amused shake of his head and then put a shushing finger to her lips before pointing at the front of the plane.

_Oh, yeah,_ Darcy though. _Stop babbling like a fangirl. We’ve still got one more baddie to deal with._

The older man who was Sweaty’s partner in crime was still in the cockpit. No doubt with a gun to the head of the pilot. The thought sent icy chills down Darcy’s spine. But the odds were in their favor now, right. Sweaty was tied up, Barton had a gun, and she had…

Darcy suddenly remembered something and bent down to rummage in the bottom of her messenger bag. When her fingers pushed aside a couple lip gloss containers, a handful of hair ties, and a third of a smushed Pop Tart to brush cool metal, she gave a happy cry of relief.

“Sweaty, meet Sparky!” She cackled as she pulled her tazer out of the bag to brandish it at the bound gunman. She was tempted to give him a taste just because of the crack he’d made about her breasts.

Clint gave Darcy a thumbs up. It made her feel more glowy than it should have, but she chalked it up to effects of the adrenaline and not the frank approval in the master archer’s eyes. _Were they blue or green? Focus, Lewis!_ She stood up and took the slightly wide stance that fellow tazer-wielder Coulson had shown her after her S.H.I.E.L.D. basic field training instructor gave up trying to force Darcy carry a firearm.

Barton nodded and then began moving toward the cockpit.

Darcy kept the tazer trained on Sweaty. She gave him what she hoped was a menancing glare, but the truth was, he didn’t need any extra scaring. The man was perspiring so hard now that his sweat had completely darkened the silk scarf gag. _Eww,_ she thought, grossed out. Then, piqued because sweat stains never came out of silk and the vintage sari print scarf had been a birthday gift from Pepper Potts.  She’d had it less than a month. _S.H.I.E.L.D. is why I can never have nice things,_ Darcy thought bitterly, still rankled by the loss of her iPod.

Then, she had greater concerns because a shot rang out and then the plane lurched sickeningly before starting what was unmistakably a dive.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My apologies to previous readers for taking so long to post a new chapter. This winter has been unkind to me in the health department and I’ve spent weeks staggering between specialists in search of a diagnosis. I wrote this in a hurry before I completely forgot where I was going with the plot.  
> These next two chapters are from Clint’s p.o.v. per request of a reader who was kind enough to give me much-needed feedback. This chapter is mostly Clint’s take on some of the events of Chapter 1, a bit of character exploration and backstory, plus some feels that sneaked it. (I hate feels! They are like cockroaches, you know. If you spot more than one, you’ve got an infestation.) So you can skip this particular chapter if you aren’t interested in Clint’s p.o.v. or are just dying to know what happened after Clint entered the cockpit.  
> Ratings/Warnings: This chapter is mild R for mention of semi-nudity, male genitalia, sexual arousal, and a fleeting temptation to self-pleasure (I can’t seem to write Clint for long without smut starting to surface) as well as bad language, violence, and icky injuries.  
> Much love,  
> lacorsetiere (formerly iyaorisha)

***

Clint Barton had been through enough near-death experiences that he knew your entire life didn’t flash before your eyes. So, grappling with a gunman mid-plane crash, he was faintly bemused to find himself revisiting the events of the last day.

_Twenty some hours earlier…_

It wasn’t weird that Clint Barton was in the air shaft next to Coulson’s office. Nope, not weird at all. And, he was absolutely not hiding from Maria Hill who, she’d told Natasha, intended to invite him to Thanksgiving dinner. Something about proving that she wasn’t mad he’d tried to kill her under Loki’s influence. In fact, Clint was following Coulson’s orders that the archer catch up with his paperwork while he was benched from field duty. Coulson had not stipulated that said paperwork had to be completed at Clint desk rather than a comfy airshaft.

Last year, a Dr. Nevins, one of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s new shrinks had wanted Clint to explain why he found the airshafts comfier than his ergonomic chair in his cubicle in Tactical. The sniper took a deep breath and replied “Because reasons.” And then sobbed loudly for several minutes for dramatic effect before pretending to be catatonic for the remainder of their session.

Dr. Nevins requested a transfer the same afternoon.

Clint was summoned to Civilian HR to see Fidelia, a grandmotherly woman that Coulson claimed was tasked with the sole purpose of hiring replacements for “people Barton broke.”  He cheerfully explained that he was trying to discourage the nice doctor from asking certain kinds of questions before Dr. Nevins asked Natasha “Why all the knives?” or something like that. He was just being helpful.

All new S.H.I.E.L.D. recruits heard some pretty intimidating rumors in their first weeks in the Academy. Three specifically referenced Clint Barton.

The first rumor: That Fury had once written a memo stating “a bored Barton is a threat to S.H.I.E.L.D. second only to H.Y.D.R.A.” Well, that was true. Clint had been delighted. He kept a copy of the memo impaled on his otherwise bare cubicle wall with an arrow. Clint also had quoted the line to Coulson a few times when the archer was itching to get off medical leave and go on a mission. He was considering having it engraved on his tombstone.

The second rumor: That Hawkeye _lived_ in the air vents at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, was absolutely untrue. Even before Stark had given Clint a suite in Avengers Tower, he’d kept an efficiency on the Lower East Side. If he spent less time there than on the archery range, Clint wouldn’t be surprised. But he was fairly sure that he wasn’t clocking as much time roaming the ventilation system. It just _seemed_ that way to the junior agents that still freaked out when they realized that S.H.I.E.L.D.’s top sniper was overhead. Sure, there were complaints occasionally (almost exclusively from weepy widdle baby agents who’d needed to change their underwear mid-day), but as Clint explained to Fidelia, he was just helping keep them alert to their surroundings. It was almost shamefully easy to sneak up on them.

The third rumor: That no one –even Barton-- could ever sneak up on Coulson. Hmmm, Clint would just have to keep testing that one.

So it was perfectly understandable ( _Right?_ ) that at 4 PM on day 20 of medical leave, Barton was in an air shaft beside Coulson’s office. He was pretending to fill out a weeks-overdue expense report from that mission in Guinea-Bissou when he heard Coulson’s secretary shout “Ms. Lewis, if you don’t have an appointment, you can’t go in there.”

“Try to fucking stop me.” The brunette snarled.

Clint commando-crawled a few feet forward until he could see into his handler’s office. If Coulson was distracted by a clearly pissed-off Darcy Lewis, the master archer wasn’t going to overlook a possible tactical advantage.

Jane Foster’s former intern had what Clint’s elderly landlady called moxie. Darcy burst into Coulson’s office without knocking and began berating the senior agent. Clint tried not to grin; the wires holding his broken jaw together didn’t like the pull.

“No? Seriously? NO?!?” The petite brunette yelled. “Because I’m pretty sure that the new hire orientation packet specified Thanksgiving is a day off for non-essential S.H.I.E.L.D. civilian personnel.”

Clint wasn’t surprised that Coulson didn’t look up from his stack of forms. No one but Fury distracted the Avengers’ handler from his precious paperwork. Still, the master archer’s excellent eyesight detected an almost imperceptible tightening of Coulson’s fingers on his pen before he responded oh so calmly. “Ah, but you _are_ essential personnel, Ms. Lewis,” the senior agent replied.  “By virtue of your relationship with Dr. Foster, you are essential to her emotional health. Which is critical to her continued ability to focus on rebuilding the Bifrost. If you were abducted or…compromised, it could set her work back for the foreseeable future.”

 _Ouch_ , Clint thought with sympathy as Darcy stared at Coulson in disbelief. The young brunette might be brash, but she hadn’t yet developed the same “mission first” attitude toward life and limb that most S.H.I.E.L.D. employees cultivated. Nor was she aware that Coulson genuinely did care for her and Jane’s well-being as evidenced by the senior agent’s request to Stark that both young women live in his ridiculous Tower where they would have not only safety but many creature comforts S.H.I.E.L.D. barracks lacked.

The master archer watched Darcy square her shoulders. “But…” she said.

“No buts, Ms. Lewis.” Coulson interrupted. “The fine print on your contract says that you can’t set foot outside the Five Boroughs without a S.H.I.E.L.D. escort.”

Clint remember the first months after he’d brought in the Black Widow when Natasha had been placed on a similar restriction. The redhead had cursed out Coulson in Russian for roughly five minutes straight. Luckily, the handler didn’t understand a word of it (or gave that impression). Clint doubted Coulson would be so lucky if Darcy let loose. Her ability to put English to profane use was notorious among the agents assigned to the Science division.

Judging by the way the senior agent’s fingers tightened slightly on the barrel again, Clint figured Coulson was contemplating the same thing. When he spoke again, his tone was a shade warmer, almost apologetic. “Normally, I’d send a Level 5 agent with you, but anyone not on actual leave for the holiday will be working.”

Clint huffed. Not true, he wasn’t working. He quickly scrawled a note on the blank side of a third request for receipts from Moldova. He considered simply dropping the sheet through the air vent slats, but impulsively folded it into a paper dart before skimming it over Coulson’s shoulder to land on his handler’s desk.

Darcy yelped and took a step back before frantically scanning the back of the small room for the source of the attack. Coulson didn’t flinch. “Barton. Air vent,” he explained as he picked up the item.

Clint wondered how long Coulson knew he was there. Meanwhile, Darcy stepped forward and squinted at the narrow slits of the grate covering the vent. Her eyeglasses sat forgotten atop her head, but he knew she couldn’t see him even with them.

“A paper dart? Are you in fourth grade?” Coulson chided as he put down his pen and unfolded Clint’s message. For a moment, Clint himself couldn’t believe what he’d written: “I’ll do it.”

Coulson shook his head. “No. You’re on medical leave for two more weeks.”

Two more weeks of paperwork. No way in fucking hell. He scribbled, folded, and aimed carefully to make sure that the next note clipped Coulson’s ear lightly.

The agent turned to glare at the air vent. “Make that three more weeks.”

This time Darcy retrieved the message, tearing the edges a little in her haste to unfold it. “No turkey. No parade. Might as well be useful.” She read aloud. “Huh?”

Coulson sighed. “Barton has a broken jaw from the Avengers’ last run in with the Doombots. It’s wired shut for a few weeks so he can’t eat solid food.”

Clint _never_ made noise as he moved through the vents, but he felt the unfairness of his liquid diet deserved a ductwork thudding boot kick.

Coulson continued, “And Director Fury thought it an unnecessary security risk to have Avengers actually marching in the Macy’s Parade.” Barton’s next kick dented the side of the air shaft, but did not even begin to express his resentment over that disappointment. He _loved_ parades.

Darcy raised an eyebrow.

Something that the senior agent would have vehemently denied was a smile ghosted across his lips. “He actually _can_ talk, but no one can understand him.”

“Sorry,” Darcy called out.

On a memo asking him to justify the rental of a string of polo ponies in _Tajikistan_. Clint wrote “Tell him that I can go baby sit you or he can stay here to babysit both of us,” He pitched this dart to land gently in Darcy’s long dark locks. She tugged it loose and her eyes lit up as she read it. She practically brandished the note in their handler’s face. “Please?” She grinned so mischievously at Coulson that Clint kicked the air vent in amusement.

The senior agent must have done a split second risk assessment because he replied, “Fine. The two of you deserve each other.” Coulson made a dismissive gesture and returned to his paperwork. “Go. Make travel arrangements. Barton, keep her on a ridiculously short lease. And I expect you both to return in 72 hours without a single scratch.”

Darcy blew a kiss at the air vent as she left.

***

When the door closed, Coulson continued writing for several minutes. Then, he set his pen down and spoke without turning to look.

“If you’re going to lurk in my ductwork, could you at least not _think_ so loud?”

Clint lightly clunked his boot against the wall of the air shaft in apology.

“Buyer’s remorse?” the handler teased.

Truth be told, Clint wasn’t sure.

In his thirty-odd years, he’d done a lot of stuff impulsively. Running away from the children’s home and joining the carnival. Bringing in the Black Widow instead of killing her. Just about every building or cliff he’d ever leapt off.

Hawkeye’s impulsivity was the subject of almost every post-mission psych eval and one reason why, before Coulson, none of the archer’s handlers had lasted more than six months. Clint couldn’t explain it. At the time he decided to do these things, they all simply felt right.

So he didn’t ever second guess himself. Not even while facing the natural consequences of his rash decisions. Months of shoveling elephant dung in exchange for eating kitchen scraps and sleeping in a mildewed hammock in a moth eaten tent. The four indescribably pleasurable but honestly terrifying days in Aleppo when Nat decided that they needed to get rid of the UST she thought was complicating their mission. So many fractures that he’d lost count of the bones he’d broken and it was simply easier to keep track of how much metal was holding him together.

Never a regret.

Loki changed all that.

Clint impulsively tried to kill Loki. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t plan despite the power being demonstrated by the strange guy who came through the Tesseract-born portal. And thus, it was that Hawkeye was made a slave, traitor, and murderer in one touch of the Asgardian’s scepter.

Nat might have knocked Loki’s influence out of his thick skull, but nature abhors a vacuum and uncertainty came to take up its place.

Volunteering to play bodyguard for Darcy Lewis was the first truly impulsive thing he’d done in months. Was that a sign that he was finally getting his mojo back? Or was this a decision that he’d soon regret?

***

After leaving the ductwork outside Coulson’s office, Clint spent 45 minutes on the range.  He started by playing around with most recent modifications Stark had made with to his S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued quiver. But after a few minutes, he resorted to simply shooting after arrow to clear his head.  He kept going until he had shredded every available target beyond recognition. He would have continued but the range attendant was visibly unnerved.

So Clint headed home.  

The master archer had lived in some unusual places: an orphanage, Carson’s Carnival (natch), for four months a tiny room in the back of a red-light district bathhouse in Shinjuku. He still couldn’t quite wrap his head around the place that he now called home: Stark Tower.

Exactly as Stark promised Banner, the top floors of what was still officially Stark Tower did house Stark Industries R & D. However, just below the labs were two floors that Stark had once used as a kind of crashpad for the senior engineers and software designers he was working into an early grave.  For weeks after the Battle of New York, this space had been used as emergency housing for roughly a 150 of the thousands of construction workers hired by Stark to help rebuild Manhattan. Once all but few of the workers had finished and departed for their home towns, Stark converted into a residential complex for the Avengers.

The billionaire himself still lived in the penthouse with Pepper Potts, but had renovated extensively to create huge apartments for each of the other five team members. Banner was the first to take up residence because he was practically living in the Stark Industries Labs anyway. Rogers had quickly followed and urged Natasha and Clint to do so as well, In the end, Thor was the only Avenger who hadn’t moved in, but he was stuck in Asgard dealing with Loki’s war crimes trial.

Each apartment unit had been designed by Stark’s A.I. JARVIS to meet the specific needs of the particular occupant. Every residence had its own private entrance and the Avenger who lived there controlled who had access via a security code, though they all suspected that JARVIS would allow his creator to override that safeguard.

Having ensured the superheroes privacy while off-duty, JARVIS had put equal effort into creating ways for them to interact easily when desired. The entire complex was equipped with an audiovisual intercom system (although they tended to just text message each other via their StarkPhones or ask JARVIS to convey messages). A short elevator ride provided access to shared spaces which included a two-story Great Room with ceiling to floor windows out onto the best view of Manhattan but ringed on three sides by a home gym, sauna, gourmet kitchen, small greenhouse, and library.

In addition, the residential complex boasted a suite of luxurious guest rooms. The largest two bedrooms were assigned to Jane Foster and Darcy Lewis for the duration of Dr. Foster’s project to rebuild the BiFrost. Roughly once a month, Stark’s friend Col. James Rhodes paid an overnight visit. Pepper Potts had encouraged the other Avengers to invite any guest who could pass a S.H.I.E.L.D. security check, but so far –to Clint’s knowledge-- no one had taken up the offer.

Pre- S.H.I.E.L.D. life had been unkind to the Avengers so they had no one else really and, with the exception of long-time partners Hawkeye and Black Widow, were still somewhat uneasy with each other. The post-battle schwarma tradition helped as did living in the same building. After they’d gotten settled in, Rogers designated Tuesday evenings as the time to assemble the Avengers for mandatory “fun”. He called it team-building and, thus, had Coulson and Fury’s complete support to force them to socialize.

Initially, Rogers had tried to force them bond over board or card games, but it was counterproductive: Stark always tried to turn things into a strip version and Nat tended to brandish a knife if she so much as _thought_ someone was cheating, so this particular approach usually just stressed Banner out to the extent that the good doctor felt the need to retreat to his own apartment. In the end, Pepper Potts recommended they stick to pizza and a movie on the huge retractable screen in the Great Room. As with the CEO’s other suggestions for semi-communal living, this had been adopted successfully. And Clint actually looked forward to Avengers Movie Night most of the time.

Tonight though, he was a bit relieved that no gathering was scheduled. Stark and Pepper Potts had been at the billionaire’s Malibu home for over a week and planned to spend the Thanksgiving holiday with her sister’s family in Connecticut before returning to California for an undetermined amount of time. Rogers was headed to the night class he taught on pre-Cold War military history. And Nat had been more mysterious than usual lately, vanishing for hours after leaving HQ but as fresh and fierce as ever for their morning PT. That left Banner who tended to stick to his rooms without Stark around to flush him out.

Clint took advantage of the solitude to make his dinner in the shared kitchen. On the granite countertop was a Vita-Mix® blender with a motor that Stark had souped up to be twice as powerful as the manufacturer intended. Perfect for making the soups and other liquid meals that he was subsisting on until his jaw could be unwired. Clint pulled containers of leftovers from the Sub-Zero fridge, followed the S.H.I.E.L.D nutritionist’s recipe for pureed chicken and brown rice, and then compensated for the lack of texture with a healthy dose of _Sriracha_. _Not half bad_ , he lied to himself.

Dinner took less than an hour to prepare, consume, and clean up, leaving Clint with two hours until bedtime. Too much time to be alone with his thoughts. J.A.R.V.I.S. had outfitted each Avenger’s apartment with obscenely expensive bespoke mattresses and whisper-soft luxury bedding designed to ensure that the superheroes slumbered in the greatest comfort, but Clint might as well be lying on a bed of broken glass when his mind was restless.

He decided to explore the ductwork of the residential complex.

***

Clint notified JARVIS of his plans for the evening’s entertainment. The A.I. offered to print out a schematic but Clint considered that cheating. He did promise to check in periodically. For this purpose, he donned the prototype military grade subvocal microphone neckband that Stark pledged to have ready as standard issue for S.H.I.E.L.D field agents by late spring. He tucked a grease pencil to mark the ductwork into his vest pocket, along with a 3X5 inch spiral notepad and pen so he could take notes on anything interesting. Then he popped the access panel above the kitchen island and hoisted himself into the cool darkness.

The ductwork of Stark Tower were a wet dream come true. As an engineer, Stark naturally appreciated a top-notch heating and ventilation system; being a narcissistic billionaire, he had outdone himself in designing the one created for the building where he lived and worked. While the focus was on efficiency, of course, an effort had clearly been made to make things aesthetically pleasing as well although the air shafts would never been seen by more than a handful of people.  To be honest, Clint half expected the ductwork to be painted red and gold. He had crawled no more than 10 feet along a shaft when he spotted a sticky note that said “Having fun, Katniss?”

After a few minutes of exploring, the master archer heard a string of curses so creative and impassioned that the only clue it wasn’t being yelled by Fury was the speaker’s female voice. He quickly commando-crawled around the next turn and found himself looking into the guest bedroom occupied by Darcy Lewis.

The brunette was curled on the small sofa that each guest room across from the footboard of its king sized bed. She had changed out of her work clothes into what looked like nightgown, but on closer inspection proved to be a way too large Culver University T-shirt. Darcy’s thick hair was piled on her head in a messy bun and she tugged on a lock that had already unraveled as she stared at her tablet with clear exasperation. From his vantage point above her, Clint could see that she was logged into a travel site, trying to book their flights to and from Chicago. Each link Darcy clicked made brought a fresh round of profanity.

It was easy to guess what had happened. Coulson had allowed the trip, but under circumstances that would make it difficult to actually occur. The senior agent probably figured that Dr. Foster’s former intern would abandon her holiday plans if she found it impossible to arrange seats on flights that would allow a roundtrip within Coulson’s 72 hour limit.

Clint didn’t have any pleasant memories of home, let alone a family Thanksgiving, but he recognized homesickness when he saw it. For the last couple weeks, Darcy’s eyes held the same look that some of the kids who joined the carnival got right before they quit and returned to the family farms and small towns they’d just run away from.

If she couldn’t book their seats to return to NYC by Friday evening, Darcy might not abandon her plans for Thanksgiving. She might decide instead to quit being Jane Foster’s S.H.I.E.L.D.-approved companion. Not understanding of course, that people don’t simply quit S.H.I.E.L.D. At least no one that Clint had ever heard from again. He quashed thoughts about what methods would be used to persuade Darcy to reconsider her letter of resignation. As grandmotherly as Fidelia appeared to be, there was no way that Fury would ever allow anyone truly tender-hearted to work in S.H.I.E.L.D. Civilian HR department. At the very least, Legal would threaten to sue her for breach of contract. A less palatable (but still not worse case) scenario involved the type of “encouragement” that Coulson had specialized in before being assigned to handle the Avengers. Clint didn’t put it past Coulson to threaten to use Darcy’s own Taser on her, if it kept the brunette at Dr. Foster’s side until the BiFrost was rebuilt. Clint didn’t like the idea of that at all.

No small part of the lore behind the Cult of Coulson was that the senior agent seemed to have tamed Hawkeye. The master archer’s disobedience to the orders of all the handlers he’d had before Coulson was legendary. As one handler had written in a memo to Fury, “If I ordered Barton to NOT set himself on fire, he would immediately start searching for gasoline and matches.” Few agents had bothered to note that pre-Coulson Clint only refused to comply with _stupid orders_ ; they just saw that Coulson didn’t have to write the sniper up for insubordination after every mission.

Before Hawkeye sent to kill Black Widow and brought Natasha into S.H.I.E.L.D instead, Clint had never outright defied Coulson’s orders. And since then, he’d never felt the desire or need to repeat his rebellion. But on occasion, he opted to follow the spirit rather than letter of his handler’s instructions. Maybe it was weird to think of getting Darcy home and then back to Manhattan as a mission, but once he slipped into that headspace, Clint found himself full of ideas about how to make it succeed. On a sheet from his notepad, he wrote “Flying coach sucks. Let’s hop a StarkIndustries jet.” Then, he twisted it into a paper dart that he sent skittering across Darcy’s tablet.

“Hey!” she exclaimed. But the look the brunette flashed at the air vent was more surprise than annoyance or fear. She quickly unfolded the paper dart and read his note. Darcy shook her head, “I can’t just borrow a jet from Tony Stark.”

 _We are NOT giving up that easily,_ Clint thought. He scrawled “Yes, you can. Stark thinks you’re totes adorbs.” Then, he carefully aimed the note to fly into the loose neckline of Darcy’s t-shirt. As he predicted the paper dart wedged between her generous breasts. She scowled at the vent before fishing it out.

Darcy rolled her eyes after reading it. “Great.” She muttered. “I’m team mascot.”

Clint kicked the air vent in amusement. 

Once he saw Darcy’s shoulders relax, he continued his exploration of the residential complex ductwork. After a few more turns, however, he found that his roiling thoughts had settled and decided to call it a night. If he stopped now, he could pack his overnight bag and be in bed by nine. For the first time in months, he looked forward to sliding between those gazillion-thread count bamboo sheets. He always slept like a baby right before a mission.

***

As it turned out, it was a good thing he’d turned in early.

Shortly after 2 AM, three soft beeps from the intercom and the lights brightening a bit woke Clint. It took a split second for him to recall that he’d requested Stark’s AI J.A.R.V.I.S. wake him that way for all non-emergency situations. He turned in bed to look at the intercom screen and saw that Darcy was requesting to speak with him. While thumbing the button to accept her request, the dark purple bedsheet that was his only covering slipped down to his waist. He didn’t realize his bare chest and arms were exposed until he saw Darcy’s eyes widen. Clint couldn’t help a surge of pride in her obvious reaction to his body. He kept fit because his body kept him and the people in his care alive, but it was very nice to be appreciated for purely aesthetic reasons every once in a while.

The thought of Darcy unable to hide that she enjoyed the sight of him half-naked stirred Clint enough that the bedsheet suddenly seemed very thin and insufficient. He quickly finger scrawed “What?” across the touchscreen of his StarkPad.

Darcy quickly explained that a snowstorm was likely to shut down airports across the Midwest before their flight on a commercial carrier even took off. J.A.R.V.I.S. had suggested they arrive ahead of the bad weather by catching a Stark Industries cargo flight. The plane was Vancouver-bound, but could make a layover at O’Hare long enough for them to deplane. They would have to be at LaGuardia by 3:30 AM for the 4 AM flight if he was okay with the last minute switch.

Clint quickly digested this news. He’d have to clear the change in plans with Coulson before they actually departed, but he couldn’t think of a good reason why the senior agent would reject the alteration unless he really was trying to make it impossible for Darcy to travel. If Coulson said no, at least things would be out in the open. Clint ran a hand roughly over his already sleep-rumpled hair and then gave her a thumbs up before clicking off.

Beneath the dark purple bamboo sheet, Clint’s cock was still half-hard from Darcy’s frank appraisal of his naked torso. He recalled Coulson’s mirthful “Buyer’s remorse?” with a new sense of misgiving. Clint decided to have a long, cold shower before discussing the new travel plans with his handler.

***

A half an hour later, Clint left his apartment to meet up with Darcy on the main floor of the Avengers’ residential complex. It was not quite three AM; the skies still dark, but the streets and neighboring buildings still abuzz with activity as evidenced by the display of lights outside the Great Room’s two-story windows. As a fellow Midwesterner, Clint understood how Darcy felt looking out on the City that Never Sleeps. Chicago might boast the tallest skyscraper in the U.S. until One World Trade Center is completed, but it wasn’t close to matching the vibrancy of Manhattan’s wee hours.  Judging by her expression as she gazed out the window, Darcy found NYC intoxicating, but was still as homesick as could be.

Well, he could help with that.

To get Darcy’s attention, Clint cleared his throat since he couldn’t call out with his jaw wired shut. She turned in his direction and his first thought was how beautiful and very, very young she was.

Wearing glasses instead of contacts and with her hair in messy pigtails, Darcy looked even younger than her 24 years. The subtle reminder of the decade and a half between them helped in a way that his cold shower thirty minutes ago hadn’t. _Remember, it’s just a mission_ , _Barton_ , he chided himself. _Get the asset to and from the engagement safely. That simple._

It was perfect reasonable that he didn’t realize at the time that nothing involving Darcy is ever that simple.

 

***

Clint had a bad feeling from the moment they stepped out of the limo on to the tarmac at LaGuardia. The cargo pilot, Kirk Jessom was okay enough. According to the quick dossier JARVIS had uploaded to Clint’s StarkPad, Jessom was 55, divorced, had worked for StarkIndustries for 15 years, and had a twenty-something daughter who lived in the Kitsilano neighborhood of Vancouver. The pilot was upbeat without seeming like he’d been stimulated by anything artificial. Clint guessed the man’s cheerfulness about working an international flight the day before Thanksgiving was because he would spend the American holiday with his daughter. Probably got overtime as well, which would be lengthened by the previously unscheduled layover in Chicago.

Clint hoped it was the prospect of time and a half pay motivating the flight’s two crew men because they were anything but cheerful. They also were last minute substitutes for the crew Jessom normally had for this mid-week run to Vancouver. According to JARVIS dossier on the flight crew, both those men had called out sick just after midnight.

It was possible that both of the usual crewmen were ill. It made sense that they were exposed to each other’s germs due to the long hours working together in the recycled air of the plane’s cargo hold. It was also plausible that both were feigning illness so that they could spend all of Thanksgiving with their families.

The two crew men who replaced them seemed dour enough for men who had expected to be in their own beds at this hour. But there was something else off about them. The dossier said that while both men were new to StarkIndustries, they had at least three years experience as cargo plane crewmen. Yet,  the younger man moved through the pre-flight procedures awkwardly, often hesitating between actions to look at his coworker for approval. The older man

The master archer was tempted to back out of this particular flight to Chicago. Play it safe. He’d figure something else out.

Maybe there were seats on the next commercial flight. It wasn’t like he’d be eating ramen for the rest of the year if he sprung for full-price one-way tickets out of his own pocket. Hell, given the hazard pay he pulled, Clint could afford to fly first-class whenever he wanted.

If no commercial flights had space, they could drive. Manhattan to Chicago was twelve hours by car. If they rented an SUV and took turns, they could be in The Windy City by dinner time tonight. Darcy would have a full day with her family on Thursday. Then, they could leave before dawn on Friday morning to report in to Coulson before the senior agent’s deadline ran out.

He turned to tell Darcy the change in plans and saw that she was already buckling herself in. She flashed him the most incandescent smile he’d ever seen. Being the recipient of such joyful gratitude felt just like every single damn building he’d ever leapt off.

Clint sighed.

He was hardly surprised at all when, less than an hour in flight, one of the men pulled a gun on them.

 


End file.
